


Georgic

by argyleam



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Barton Farm, Clint & Natasha friendship, Compersion, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, In Medias Res, Laura Barton character study, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyleam/pseuds/argyleam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha on the Barton farm, with Laura.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Georgic

Laura’s stomach was heavy; she had a little dapple of stretch marks along her hips, pink against her pale, tawny skin. Her breasts were heavy, lovely, over the curl of her belly. Natasha couldn’t stop touching her; she loved how _complete_ Laura felt in her arms, how replete. There was a stillness to Laura, pregnant. “Exhaustion,” Laura always said when Natasha commented on it. “And sore feet.” 

But there was always a stillness to Laura, anyway. It was part of the specific equation that was Laura, that she was still and could hold still, that she could rest in the middle of this impossible pastoral of a life while Clint came and went and fought and was wounded and landed a private jet in the south pasture and got urgent texts on a code-red Starkphone at three in the morning. She could be still with the kids, she could drive the truck into town and buy impossible groceries at an impossible store - who bought _cornmeal_? Who bought it from a store that also sold lawnmower parts? Natasha could build easily eight kinds of bombs and an improvised mortar from the stuff in that store, but she couldn’t have made a meal there to save her life - and come home and type away at her projects at her laptop, supervise finger-painting like the world wasn’t probably ending a hundred miles away with her husband at the center. Natasha had been around plenty of people who praised a simple life of hearth and family. Natasha had mostly been around them when they went on business trips and hired red-haired, high-priced escorts to complain about their wives to, in between telling her things she very much needed to know about arms deals. She mostly didn’t believe in the whole thing. She still wasn’t sure that she believed in it, in general.

Sometimes she was out at the farm without Clint and she caught Laura watching out the window - always looking to the north, and to the east, like she could see him on the horizon, like she expected the jet over the hills. Her face was - stern, when she stood like that. Longing, maybe. Hard to read, and Natasha was good at reading people.

There were some times when Natasha felt that she could come up behind Laura - deliberately creaking the floorboards - and brush the thick fall of her brown hair aside from her neck, kiss the angle of her neck, wrap her arms around the soft lines of her waist. Not when Laura watched the horizon like that, though. When Laura watched the horizon like that Natasha went and put the coffee on, checked her phone for messages, and then if she didn’t have any she started doing little checks of the news. You could usually tell where everyone was, if you read closely enough. 

It wasn’t that Natasha waited for Clint with Laura that often. Usually it was both of them gone, Clint and Natasha in some far-off forest, running and dodging and crawling through mud, trapped behind a boulder in some kind of epic shootout that went on for so long that Natasha started wondering if lichen were edible, if she could just pause and put some peanut butter on some crackers, maybe, if she could call time-out and get up and pee behind a tree. Natasha had been in situation after situation where she’d thought the thought _if one of us is going home, it has to be him_. The problem with Clint - goddamn fucking Barton - was that he would decide the same thing right back. Clint goddamn fucking Barton kept rescuing her back. It created an inescapable rescuing loop. Sometimes Natasha was out in the field when Clint was home, for long times, five months, eight months, infiltration jobs, the kind of jobs where there stopped being a Natasha Romanov for a while. It was good, when it was like that. Natasha liked it. Clint and Laura and the kids were at home, safe, or as safe as anyone could make them; Natasha was loose in the world, like a thrown pebble. She could shed everything that she had to be for Clint’s sake, and the first thing that she had to be for Clint’s sake was _herself_. Terrible things happened in infiltration jobs sometimes, but they weren’t personal. She handled it. It got done. And anyway, SHIELD didn’t ask too much of her, in the grand scheme of things, and then SHIELD failed, and what was left over asked even less. 

She came back to the farm - not home, she told herself. Home to Clint, maybe, but not home to the farm, it wasn’t hers. She was a guest there, the place was on loan to her. The self she was when she was there was like a ratty, comfortable bathrobe Laura kept for her, and Natasha shook that self out and put it on and relaxed. 

She woke up in Clint and Laura’s bed - Clint wasn’t there, Clint had gone to DC and now he was in Dusseldorf, from the sound of the news. Laura and Clint’s room was beautiful and big and old, like everything in the house, with windows on two sides - a good clear sightline over the hill, a nice angle down to the driveway, a notch in the windowsill marking where Clint had set up, once, probably just a runthrough. Probably a just a safety drill. 

The first light of dawn over the hill sent a single spear of yellow light across the white curtains and Laura pushed the blanket back and straddled her, her cunt warm and wet against Natasha’s stomach. Natasha grinned up at her, stretched lazily, let Laura bend down and take the tip of Natasha’s breast between her lips, let her drag a line of heat down Natasha’s body. Natasha tolerated the teasing for a moment, a moment more - it did feel good, it felt nice - and then pulled Laura up, tugged at her hips until she was settled, gasping, straddling Natasha’s face.

Natasha had eaten pussy before, of course she had, she was an educated woman, well-rounded, expected to get along in the world. She _liked_ it with Laura, though, in a way that had been beside the point before. If there hadn’t been kids downstairs - and seriously, how had they ever managed to have more than one kid? - Natasha could have spent all day here, absorbed in the soft lines of Laura’s body, tracing her hands up and down Laura’s thighs as they trembled and clenched at her ears. It was good. It was what she wanted, and doing what she wanted was, sometimes, a nice change.

But there _were_ kids downstairs, weren’t there - she could hear the sound of cereal being poured - so she wrapped her hands around Laura’s hips, worked her tongue against the smooth firm bump of Laura’s clit, urged her on with her hands, and was rewarded - soon, it was always soon, Laura was sensitive, Laura loved this position - with a shaking, radiant _clench_ , with Laura rocking, instinctive, against Natasha’s face while her thighs _squeezed_ like she could squeeze the air out of Natasha’s lungs, which Natasha loved too, this last gasping minute as Laura panted quietly above her. 

Laura stilled, and Natasha grinned up at her, aware that her chin was slick and wet and her hair was disheveled and she probably still had last night’s makeup smeared under her eyes. She looked like hell. She did not, generally, let herself look like hell. Laura had pillow creases on her cheek, but she was also flushed and panting and happy, and Natasha liked that about Laura too - that she could just hold still and be _happy_. 

“Shall I -” Laura said, grinning, and Natasha shook her head, and Laura leaned down and kissed her, smackingly, on her wet cheek, and then put her hand in Natasha’s hair and kissed her mouth, lingering. “You’re good to me, Nat,” she said, pressing her nose against Natasha’s cheek, and then clambered off, ungainly, holding her belly - Natasha always wondered what it must be like, to need that extra support - and threw the curtains back.

\---

Clint and Natasha didn’t really talk about it, about how things were with Laura. They talked about the farm - Clint talked endlessly about renovation, when they were out where the kids couldn’t be talked about, and they didn’t talk much about the kids even in bug-swept rooms. It was a secret that Natasha was in charge of keeping, for both of them, and anyway, she knew that Clint could see it on her face, when she came back to the field from the farm, just like she could see on his face when he came back - they were good. Things were good.

Once when they were in the woods twenty miles from anywhere - except maybe a cache of Hydra ordinance that was currently involved in a dirtbag bidding war - and Clint was fresh back, Clint said “So, the pregnancy hormones are. Something.” and Natasha - who was holding a damn sniper rifle, not her preferred weapon, she wasn’t such a good distance shot, but needs must - said “Yep.” 

Clint paused, and said “Thanks for looking out for things,” and Natasha paused, weighed all the potential meanings there, and then said “No problem.” 

\---

They tried it once, all three of them, they really did try, but it was doomed from the start. Natasha didn’t really want to touch Clint, and Clint didn’t really want to touch Natasha, so they didn’t, but Laura kept getting distracted by one or the other, and then Natasha made a _face_ when Clint took his pants off and Laura started laughing and they couldn’t keep going. Natasha liked it better when she was laying awake in the next room, watching a streak of moonlight - _moonlight_ , they really were in the country - creep across the ceiling, listening the muffled sounds of them in the next room, the creak of the old four-post bed, Laura’s stifled, familiar gasp. It was a low and lulling sound, built of familiar pieces. Natasha had fallen asleep so many times, in her life, to the sound of Clint maintaining his bow, cooking on the smokeless little camp stove, patrolling. Getting up to piss in the bushes, in the field. Sitting with a perfect sniper’s stillness in the window while she cleaned her guns. She knew the way his knee creaked and she knew the way the bed rocked and she belonged there, in that house, in those sounds. It was familiar.

She liked to think that she’d been at the farm the night Nate was conceived. The math probably wasn’t right; she’d gone back to New York a week before Clint had. But there was a day, a long beautiful day, that Natasha remembered as _the_ day. Nothing much had happened. Clint had gotten up early, gone for a run, made french toast for the kids. Natasha and Laura had gone for a long drive, into town to buy bananas and deck sealer, and then around, just to be out. Clint liked to let Laura get out, away from the kids, when he could, and they wound up parking up in the national park, on the side of a dirt road that was practically a track, and talked for a long while, easily, in the way that Laura was always easy. Natasha didn’t have much conversation, when you got right down to it - there were always so many layers, layers and layers of things that she couldn’t disclose. But Laura _knew_ already, Clint had decided a long time ago that Laura would know everything that was remotely safe to tell her, and so even Natasha’s gnomic little hints fit, made sense. Natasha wouldn’t be surprised, in the end, if Laura didn’t understand more of what happened - with Steve, with Fury, even with Tony - than Clint did. She had longer to think about it, after all, and less distraction. 

They finished talking, and then they sat in silence, comfortable, for a long moment, and then Laura turned and took her hand, kissed her, and then went down on Natasha in the car for what may well have been an actual eternity, until Natasha saw spots behind her eyes, until Natasha was pretty sure the upholstery was destroyed, until Natasha was pretty sure that she couldn’t come anymore but then she kept coming. Until she stopped trying to keep her noises polite and her hands out of Laura’s hair and she braced one foot on the dashboard and rocked against Laura’s face, moaning, and Laura wrapped her hand around Natasha’s thigh holster and pulled her closer. Laura knew better than to leave marks - it wasn’t a good memory, for Natasha, when that happened, plus who knew who might need to see what, and who knew who’d ask what questions - but she bit gently, against the inside of Natasha’s thigh, licked a long warm stripe, crooked three fingers inside Natasha and Natasha pulled her up, kissed her in a way that was desperate and unplanned, came hard, _hard_. Laura straddled her thigh, rocking, her tongue in Natasha’s mouth, her wet hand in Natasha’s hair, what the hell ever, Natasha thought, no one to see her out here. No one actually watching. 

Then she thought about Stark satellites and checked the tree coverage real quick, just in case. 

When they were done, finally, mostly because the sun might set eventually and also they had a pizza for dinner getting cold in the back seat, Laura clambered back into the driver’s seat and just _looked_ at Natasha, long and hard. She took Natasha’s hand, and Natasha braced for her to say something unbearable, something that would be too much, something that would have to be _addressed_. 

She didn’t. She just looked, and squeezed Natasha’s hand, and then let it drop and buckled her seatbelt and started the car. 

When they were back at the house Clint greeted them at the door, sawdust in his hair. The kids were coloring on the floor of the sunroom; there was a fresh pot of coffee on the counter. It was like something from a hallucination, something Natasha might have thought of under opiates in some hospital, where the world would seem bright and sane and kind right up until the drugs wore off.

Clint wrapped Laura up in one of his huge, encompassing hugs and gave Natasha that simple, easy look, bumped her shoulder with his shoulder while she messed with the coffee creamer. That night Natasha was the one who put the kids to bed, read to Cooper from a terrible, terrible Stark Industries book about space exploration and to Lila from a slightly better book about dinosaurs (but then, what did Natasha know about dinosaurs), tucked them in. Lila asked for a glass of water, and then another glass of water, and Natasha was wise to her tricks and went and got the water anyway.

When the lights were finally out Natasha walked past Clint and Laura’s open door on the way to her room - she had Avengers email to check, if nothing else, her usual three-hour evening scan of the world news, hooks to bait on encrypted email accounts behind TOR servers. “Nat,” Laura said, from inside the open door. “Come say good night.” and when Nat sat down on the edge of the bed Laura wrapped her arms around her shoulders, pressed her chin into the crook of her neck, and held her there for a second. It was the kind of thing that only Laura could have gotten away with, getting up in Natasha’s space like that. Clint was doing his evening weapons check - a tough thing, in a house with kids, a bedside locker with a thumbprint scanner Tony had rigged up back in New York, a check of a perimeter security system as complex as most SHIELD bases. He looked up from his work, gave Natasha that easy grin that came so easily at home. He stowed the last of the armaments in the drawer, checked the lock, and then scooted across the bed, wrapped his arms around Laura. 

Natasha knew Clint’s arms the way she knew everything else about Clint. They were precisely muscled and heavily scarred - burns, from the Chitauri weapons, everyday slashes and nicks from close-up fighting, a set of hard-to-explain calluses where the bowstring fit against his body like it fit into the grooves of the stave. He fit against Laura that way. That restful click of _right_. 

Then he ruined the moment by reaching around and tousling Natasha’s _hair_ , and she snapped “Seriously, Barton?” and batted at him and Laura laughed and dodged out of the middle and then landed a smacking kiss on Natasha’s cheek. 

“Good night, you _asshole_ ,” Natasha said to Clint, and then said, less irritably, “Good night, Laura.” and leaned down and kissed her, sincerely. And then she left and closed the door, and she hoped that that was the night Nathaniel happened. Just because it had been such a good day. 

Right after that she spent three months on the ground outside of Medan, trying to track down a really terrifying cultured Chitauri spore that had killed four scientists in a lab in Bologna. It was a tough job. She broke a guy’s fingers two days in, which was a sign of a job gone really wrong already. It bugged her, in a way that it didn’t used to. She’d tell Clint about it, maybe, back in New York. 

She didn’t think about the rest of it. She didn’t think about Laura Barton. It wasn’t a thought for this place or for this kind of work. But sometimes before she fell asleep she thought about the sound of the crickets in the field outside the farmhouse, for just a second before she drifted off.

**Author's Note:**

> ngl, I thought "what if Natasha's extremely surprising feelings on reproduction make her super fascinated with Laura's pregnancy?" and then I got here by typing. I know canon Bruce/Natasha is not even remotely in here. I could get there from here but that would involve making everyone sad again.


End file.
